


Inside This Dream

by surprisepink



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Childhood Friends, Fluff, Gen, Gen or Pre-Slash, Pillow & Blanket Forts, Pre-Canon, the fic that every LinCas fan is obligated to write about Caspar's fear of storms
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-06
Updated: 2020-05-06
Packaged: 2021-03-02 19:41:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,605
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24032197
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/surprisepink/pseuds/surprisepink
Summary: Remember the last time we made a blanket fort?
Relationships: Caspar von Bergliez & Linhardt von Hevring
Comments: 6
Kudos: 61





	Inside This Dream

He’d been staring out the window thinking about this and that and the other thing -- and, mostly, why he was stuck inside just then, when it was the middle of spring and even though it was probably going to rain later, a handful of grey clouds already on the horizon, right then it was just a _perfect_ day to go outside and experience nature and all that, and also to try to find a tree to spar with.

Just then came a voice: "Incoming,” it said, and Caspar, age twelve, felt his mattress bounce beneath him as a small but not insignificant weight flopped onto it. He was surprised for only a moment; it was obvious who was both comfortable enough to approach him without warning, knowing his presence would be welcome, and also nonchalant enough about casual touching to lie beside him, barely centimeters away, like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Besides, his parents had mentioned that the Hevrings would be visiting today. And that their fathers would be talking about "very important political business", and their mothers would be having "a proper tea, and meeting Giselle's new darling puppy". And, finally, that Caspar "was _not_ to bother them, given _the incident_ that happened _last_ time, but their son would be joining him on his own time _if_ he could be removed from bed in adequate time for them to depart.

("He'll be removed- I mean, they'll get him out of bed," Caspar had replied. Linhardt did his best to miss a lot of things, but never missed an opportunity to visit him.)

(Caspar didn't think that walking through the sitting room when he was half-covered in mud while his mother was entertaining counted as an "incident", even if some of them were the wives of even higher officials, and even though there _was_ some blood mixed in - his, long story - but _she_ did. So now it was an "incident", and he wouldn't be allowed to greet Linhardt at the door for at least the next six months, instead being sent to his room and told to stay there, or outside, and nowhere else when there were visitors.)

"Why weren't you downstairs?" Linhardt asked, already absentmindedly flipping through his book, one with small letters in tight, precise handwriting. A spell tome, Caspar assumed, or some kind of magical theory. Linhardt read other things - for as long as they'd known each other, he'd read just about anything for at least a few pages, then toss it aside if it didn’t keep his interest - but as of late he had been enjoying the process of honing his spells.

Caspar didn't get the whole magic thing, not really, but Linhardt had a knack for it and was more enthusiastic about studying than he was about most anything else. His brain was massive (that was how it worked, right? He was pretty sure...) but he'd only use it for things that had earned his interest at any given moment, and right now he wanted to get better at magic. He'd already mastered a basic wind spell in addition to the healing talents he'd had for years, and now something about setting things on fire? That one sounded like it could be fun.

("Are you gonna learn the lighting one, too?" Caspar had asked one night, a year or two ago; "Don't worry, I won't," Linhardt replied.

Internally, Caspar had breathed a small sigh of relief. Externally, he insisted that he was _not worried_ , just curious.)

Here's what Caspar knew about magic: 1) it was cool 2) it was useful 3) it was _cool_.

If he were the jealous type, Caspar would be _wildly_ jealous of Linhardt. As it was, he was just appreciative - that Linhardt had such a useful skill, that he would freely share it with Caspar as he got into various forms of trouble, and that he never seemed more than slightly exasperated when healing was requested of him.

Caspar was cool in his own ways - probably? - but not _that_ cool.

He still hadn't answered Linhardt's question, lost in thought as he was, although his friend didn't seem particularly bothered by that.

"Hey, Linhardt? Do you think I'm cool?"

"What does that have to do with anything?"

"Nothing - oh, my mom said I can't go downstairs when they have people over because I bled on the carpet last time, you remember - anyway, I was just wondering."

"I remember. You cut your leg on that sharp branch when you were getting out of the puddle, it was disgusting."

"Right! Thanks for healing it after, by the way."

"It was probably too late by then, considering what a mess you made."

"Well, that squirrel I rescued came back to thank me, so it was worth it."

By then Linhardt had shifted and Caspar had rolled over a bit, so that the two of them were lying face-to-face.

“Are you sure it was the same squirrel?” Linhardt asked. “They all look the same.”

“It was! I can tell. He said thank you.”

Linhardt laughed fondly, a laugh that Caspar had come to love. It meant that he was making Linhardt happy, and that made _him_ even happier. "It was worth it either way, even though I had to help drag you both out.” His breath was warm in Caspar's face and smelling faintly of toast and jam. "I _do_ think you're cool, Caspar."

Caspar felt his face grow warmer, and a familiar warmth spread through his body as well. It was the feeling of comfort, like clean sheets or a warm cup of angelica tea. Linhardt's magic felt this way, too, whenever his healing spells took their course through Caspar's body: sweet and soft and cozy.

But there was no spell now, and Caspar still felt the same way. It was like the comfort of Linhardt's magic and the comfort of _Linhardt_ were slowly becoming one and the same, and that was...

All at once, Caspar leapt from his place in the bed. No point in thinking about it too much.

"What's going on? Don’t tell me we’re going to be running around..." Linhardt shifted his body lazily, rolling into a position where his head was in one hand, sitting up just enough so that he could see his friend.

"We shouldn't waste any time! It's the perfect day to go outside and train!"

"Training, huh? Are you sure you're not thinking of playing?"

"It's training, training!" said Caspar, rustling around under his bed for the spare wooden practice axes he'd gotten from his older brother. Linhardt never complained much about 'helping' him train, so long as the help was restricted to being in his general vicinity and occasionally saying supportive things. That was their arrangement more and more, the older they got: being involved in their own separate interests, together. At first, Caspar had been insulted that he had seemingly no investment in his success as a warrior, but soon enough he'd realized that Linhardt was showing the highest form of affection by being with him, even if he also had a book attached to his hand at the same time.

The lack of interest in sparring with him didn't stop Caspar from bringing both axes and offering one to Linhardt every time, though. He hoped that soon, he'd be old enough to be trusted with a _real_ axe, one that couldn't be damaged as easily by magic, and then by that point maybe Linhardt would know some good offensive spells and would want to hone his skills, and then they could-

Before he could finish that thought, there was a rumble through the sky and Caspar yelped and leaped back onto the bed. When his mind caught up a few seconds later, he began to feel altogether very silly, but by that point Linhardt had already sat up and was setting his book to the side, then took Caspar's hands in his, squeezing gently. The gesture was small, but it soothed him.

"I'm fine," he said, making no effort to move. "Let's go anyway."

"Mm, you first," Linhardt replied,"It's about to storm, though - it must be."

"That's not the problem and you know it," Caspar mumbled.

"Pardon me?"

"Nothing."

He allowed himself a few moments to pout a bit, to enjoy Linhardt's presence and to think about what might be next. Going outside seemed out of the question, loathe as he was to admit it, and though the wooden axes laid of the floor just out of reach, his mother had told him in no unclear terms that the second he broke something in his room from swinging them around inside, she'd seize them until at least his next birthday.

(It was a point of contention between his parents: his father believed in teaching his children how to defend themselves as soon as they were able; his mother believed in not having to deal with broken vases and scraped knees that could have been prevented.)

An idea slowly surfaced, something that he hadn't thought about in a while, not since he had decided that he was very much grown, almost an adult, and didn't need to do childish things anymore.

"Linhardt?" he asked, carefully. His friend's eyes were closed, and he _probably_ hadn’t fallen asleep this quickly, yet...

"Yes, Caspar?" Linhardt replied, his eyelashes fluttering open. So he was awake -- or at least close enough to awake for what Caspar wanted.

"Remember the last time we made a blanket fort?"

"That was a while ago, we were eight." Linhardt's tone was even, as if he didn’t have much of an opinion on the matter one way or another.

"Well, what if we did it again?"

After letting go of Caspar's hands - somehow, Caspar already missed their warm, gentle pressure - Linhardt rolled his shoulders, then indulged in a large stretch before answering. "Sounds comfortable, as long as you do the heavy lifting."

"It's not going to be anything heavy, silly, just blankets and pillows."

"Lovely, then you can handle it."

Now it was Caspar who was rolling his eyes, eager to get to work before the weather got worse. They could hear the patter of raindrops outside, slowly getting louder, and when he looked out the nearest window before closing the curtains, the sky was thick with dark grey clouds.

Linhardt trailed lazily behind him, closing the other curtains as Caspar rummaged through his storage chest, miscellaneous clothing pieces and old toys left where they fell on the ground as he pulled out several of his spare blankets. Then it was straight to business assembling everything: two chairs and a table that he rarely used, only put there in the first place because his room was too large for one boy who was outdoors at every possible moment and his mother wanted everything decorated nicely, became the fort's base, and a few thin blankets draped over them quite nicely, making a cozy area within. The thicker blankets were reserved for the floor, and Linhardt helpfully took Caspar's pillows from his bed and tossed them in to join the blankets before crawling inside. Before joining him, Caspar quickly kicked the scattered items under his bed, just in case one of their parents came by to lecture them about not exasperating the maids any more than they already did.

Caspar took a moment to admire his handiwork as he crawled in. It was messy, but everything seemed to be in place securely enough, there were an adequate number of pillows, and Linhardt had already made himself comfortable, lying down in the absolute center of the fort. It was... comforting, really, that he'd made such a cozy place for them so quickly. He was too old to believe that there was anything protective about a few chairs and some bedding that wasn't already provided to him by the family manor, but an unusual calm still filled him.

Soon enough, the rain came, the first patter of tiny drops quickly building up to a steady downpour. It would have been a soothing sound if rolling thunder and the crash of lightning didn't ring through the air every few minutes, but Caspar, now curled up with Linhart's arm around him, had no such luck. Linhardt's book was long forgotten on the floor somewhere, and now he was stroking Caspar's hair, the repeated motion a comfort reminiscent of something his mother might have done years ago.

Eventually, Linhardt spoke again; he wasn't sure how much time had passed, but he'd counted five lighting strikes now. "I like your haircut, it feels nice to rub. Kind of prickly."

This, too, was a comfort: Linhardt speaking candidly, doing his best to comfort him without following the song and dance that most people would go through if their best friend was distressed. Hopefully, that would never change; more important than pretty words was Linhardt simply being there, being _Linhardt_.

"I like you," Caspar said as a way of response, either too young or simply too distressed to think too much about the words coming out of his mouth. "Or, uh, having you here. You make me feel better, or you would if I was scared."

Linhardt likely rolled his eyes at Caspar's bravado, although the way he was positioned Caspar couldn't see his expression right now, with his own face still shoved into Linhardt's body.

He'd been polite enough to not doze off before then, but now that he was curled up with Caspar in the relative darkness of their little hideaway, but with his duty fulfilled, there was no real reason to stay awake any longer. At some point in their friendship, Linhardt had mentioned that he found storms soothing - soothing! - because they made for a nice background noise to a nap, and because it smelled nice afterward. (The latter, at least was difficult for Caspar to deny.)

Being healed by him was a softer, kinder feeling than any other than Caspar had ever known. It felt like he was being embraced and placed in the softest bed in the world, and at the same time like there was a fire burning deep in his core, fueled to beyond his normal capabilities after Linhardt touched his hand to Caspar's shoulder or forehead or his own hand. It felt like he was in a dream, like he was floating and lucid and could do anything.

Several times, he had almost asked if Linhardt felt the same way, when he was casting magic on Caspar. For some reason he couldn’t explain, he wanted Linhardt to say yes, wanted him to But that was silly, right? It must just be how magic _felt_.

There was no magic in this moment, only the simple sensations that enveloped him: the fluffy bed beneath them, Linhardt's soft hands, the sound of his own heart beating too fast, Linhardt's breath at a grounding, steady pace. Distantly, he could still hear the rumbles of thunder, the crashes of lighting -- six times, seven -- but it seemed so far away now as his world narrowed down to only Linhardt.

The night was still far away, and on most days it was impossible for Caspar to nap; he was the type to stay up half the night, his mind jumping to a thousand places at once even when his body was tired from a busy day, so sleeping before it was even close to his bedtime was out of the question. Yet today, in their small, secret place that felt safer than a real fort and more sacred than any church, sleep's lure was impossible to resist, and his eyes drifted closed.

**Author's Note:**

> idk
> 
> [twitter](https://twitter.com/seraphknights)


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